"Don Quixote USA" Screenplay
(Part & Parcel)
Brought to you by the zany comic opera of
Richard Powell and the PROMOTIONAL RAZZMATAZZ 
of Michael "Lawless" Adams (ALL RIGHTS RESERVED!)

"Sonny, even though I'm dead
you might be on to something!"

You did not really mean to go off with my camera, did you?

Senor, how could one conceive such a thing?! I was merely coming here to climb these boxes and, once at the top, take excellent photos of the Senor!

 

OUR HERO looks at the purser and apologetically explains that "It's my camera".

Let him go.

[-- putting his hand on the PURSER'S ARM with enlightened kindness]

He didn't steal the camera. He was going to climb these boxes and take a shot of me with the ship in the background,

As OUR HERO gestures, there is a brisk shot of the "U.S.S. Suckerfish" groaning in the harbor, the grimy name standing out like a statement that contrasts "enlightened principles" with the ways of the world.

THE PURSER shrugs gruffly, as if this reasoning goes against "his better judgment".

THE PURSER leaves, now it's just OUR HERO and THE BOY.

A thousand thanks, Senor. When accused of theft I was sick at heart. You see, I was trying to climb these boxes and--

OUR HERO puts his hand on THE BOY'S shoulder.

Yes, yes. I understand.

What delayed me, Senor, was the problem of holding the camera in one hand while trying to climb. If you had thought to lend me the carrying case, I would have had both hands free to climb, and the peectures would have been taken long ago!

I should have thought of that myself.

OUR HERO unslings THE CASE and gives it to THE BOY.

Senor, your arrival in Puerto Grande has made this a glorious day for me. Now if you will turn around and walk over there while I climb up these boxes. . . . .

OUR HERO turns around and once again returns to the gangway. As he does so, he hears the cry of "Ariba, Ariba! Andale, Andale!", and looks over his shoulder to see a puff of dust where THE BOY was once standing.

As the narration overlays, OUR HERO looks around the boxes, scratching his head-- wondering where the boy went.

Evidently, the boy had vanished with my camera. But I suppose, at least, in a way that was outside the little white printed manual we members of the Peace Corps carried with us, I had helped a resident of a less fortunate country improve his standard of living. . . . .

FADE OUT

Part 2: "No One's Son-of-a-Bitch"

OPEN TO

INT. Customs Building, Day

The scene opens to customs, a sleepy desk where a man in a green eyeshade rifles through OUR HERO'S paperwork before taking a nip from A BOTTLE OF RUM with bleary, clouded-over eyes.

Customs fee eese 100 pesos. 500 if you want to get out of 'ere beefore sunset.

Is this bribery?

No, eet's called greasin' de wheels. Trust me compedre.

[He says this with a slightly scrunched expression of significance, like it's "easier to go along" with this mode of business]

OUR HERO takes out HIS WALLET and starts to count out his money, with a view of the pesos in his hand as he whips out the currency with irritation.

He looks up beyond the counter and sees A MEMBER OF THE U.S. LEGATION standing around in a business suit, looking very bored and official. OUR HERO hollers and waves but THE OFFICIAL does not seem to notice or care. While he is attempting to flag down "his contact", he lays down THE WALLET on the counter.

THE HAND OF THE CUSTOMS OFFICIAL slowly reaches across the counter and snatches the wallet with oily subtlety.

OUR HERO looks down at the counter, ignorant to the trickery of the world.

Now where'd my wallet go?

A beetle took it in eets jaws and wandered off with eet, but we shall 'let eet go' this time, Americano. Welcome to our country!

To underscore the preposterousness of everything, a burro hee-haws in the building.

But I thought the giant beetle was only native to the South American rainforest!

Ah, but it eese a jungle out there. Stay close to town, like thee burro"

The burro in question flicks at flies with its tail, looking quite placid.

Good day, senor.

 

OUR HERO gathers HIS LUGGAGE, walks right up to THE U.S. OFFICIAL (Bill Helms) and begins talking to him with the air of a weary traveler after a long journey.

By chance, are you from the United States Legation? My name is Arthur Peabody Goodpasture and--

But THE OFFICIAL is not particularly paying attention, then all of a sudden notices "his charge" and jumps with shock.

Good Lord. . . . . . you got the drop on me. I didn't notice you!

No one notices me.

Where have you been?

I was delayed.

We need to move fast. Let's take care of your bags and get going!

I would show you my credentials, proof of my identity, but a giant beetle ran off with my wallet at the counter.

That giant beetle wouldn't happen to be the customs agent, now would it?

No, it was a giant insect. . . . .

SCENE CHANGES SUDDENLY

CUT TO:

Clip of Mexican science fiction movie, man in bug costume and heroes speaking in Spanish as they retreat in horror across an office from this campy monstrosity.

BACK TO:

Ext. Customs Buildings, Day

The conversation continues between BILL HELMS and OUR HERO.

Oh, Christ. Goodpasture. We'll replace your stolen money up to a certain extent, but you really got to be more careful.

I'm a Peace Corps volunteer--

It figures.

Skill Code 06-3. , , , ,

06-3?

Yes. Fruit Farming.

You couldn't possibly make it double-oh-seven, could you?

No. I believe that is the Skill Code for General Laborer, under the category for "Construction and Industrial Occupations".

Too bad. I thought maybe we were getting "James Bond".

James Bond?

You don't read those Ian Fleming books, huh?

I can't recall a Fleming who has written any studies in my field. There is a Flemington who did a paper on the pollination of Class A and Class B varieties of avocados. . . . .

Maybe we better skip it, Goodpasture. By the way, my name is Bill Helms, Third Secretary at the Legation. Now let's go, and I'll explain later why the rush.

EXT. Puerto Grande Streets, Day (Early Afternoon)

BILL HELMS and ARTHUR PEABODY GOODPASTURE climb into A RED SPORTS CAR with OUR HERO'S LUGGAGE. Forever grateful, THE GUEST remarks that he could have taken a taxi and saved this generous member of the legation a lot of trouble.

Goodpasture. I got news for you. Before trusting yourself to a Puerto Grande taxi, see how you make out by asking a pickpocket to brush off your clothes. This may be a backward country, but in deviousness they got a jump on the rest of the world.

The preferred term is not "backward country" but "under-developed" or "emerging nation".

Look, you're not making a speech to the UN Assembly. We can skip the double-talk and see it like realists.

BILL HELMS shifts the car in gear and takes off down one of the narrow streets, just missing a donkey hauling a cart filled with vegetables and a file of women with bundles of clothes on their heads as he honks the horn. HELMS yells over the sound of the wind, and they continue to have their dialogue:

We're going to the Fortaleza. I'll take you to your hotel later. Brace yourself, kid, you got an appointment with the Generalismo himself, known to his cowed subjects as El Toro, "the bull".

I know the Peace Corps has a high international standing, but I hardly expected to be received on my first day by the Chief of State. It's wonderful!

BILL HELMS slaps his horn irritably and dodges the car out of the way of two dogs fighting in the street, rolling around like vicious curs. Then he resumes the shouting over the wind.

Yeah, well, we all hope it's wonderful, but we have our fingers crossed. Nobody can figure it. You see, up to last night our only dealings-- as far as you're concerned-- were with the Minister of the Interior. He's the guy, who, in addition to other duties, louses up agriculture. But last night Interior phones my chief and says in a shaking voice that the Generalismo just heard you were coming and wants to see you the moment you arrive. "Interior" doesn't know why. None of us know why.

Perhaps the Generalisimo happened to read my report on the desirability of the blind eye corm method of banana culture. That is really why I'm here. San Marco could develop a highly profitable trade in bananas if the blind eye corm method were introduced. It--

Art, the only thing El Toro reads is the Federal budget, to make sure nobody else is getting away with grand larceny.

Our hero blinks and frowns, and turns his eyes out the window, as if confused. Then he shores up his resolve and begins speaking in a firm voice that self-validates his liberal principles:

I understand that the Generalisimo has many good qualities. I have been informed that he is a true son of the people, born in a hovel, who joined San Marco's armed forces as a patriotic youth and came up through the ranks to his present stature.

Yeah, he came through the ranks, all right. He came through them like an artillery barrage, leaving just about as many casualties behind. Art, this guy is a real son-of-a-bitch. And I'm sorry to say that, unlike some dictators, he's not even our son-of-a-bitch.

Where does he lean, to the Russians or the Chinese?

No. He's just his own son-of-a-bitch. So watch your step with him

EXT. Fortaleza, Day

They come up to "The Fortress", a castle of old, dark limestone that perches on a hillside like a murky vulture.

They are stopped at an outer gate guarded by two machine gun nests where an officer checks their papers, eyeing them upside down "kangaroo-kourt" style because he doesn't know how to read but is awash in the glow of officialdom, before saluting and waving them through.

BILL HELMS parks the car in a marble courtyard where soldiers are drilling and marching in formation, most out-of-step. Truly, a tin-horn country of penny-farthing fascism!

INT. Fortaleza, Day

BILL HELMS and ARTHUR PEABODY GOODPASTURE pass through another guard post and enter a big hallway furnished with romantic 19th century Latin American paintings, many that have been used for bayonet practice.

The feeling is very Latin, or Iberian, but swollen and dramatic-- the art-form of gruesome Catholic agony, much like Goya's early 19th century painting, "Shooting of the Madrid Patriots".

THE MINISTER OF THE INTERIOR flutters out to meet them, a slight, scared man who carries on like an intimidated sparrow. He tells BILL HELMS to wait in the hall, who nods curtly, while this harried takes OUR HERO to his appointment.

They walk down the hallway, each door standing at fascismo attention as THE MINISTER OF THE INTERIOR chatters that he hopes everything will go well, and that perhaps he had been in error not to have cleared San Marcos' request for aid with the Generalisimo personally.

The two stand at the imposing door of "El Toro", two guards standing at attention in Nazi stormtrooper helmets. A shrieking eagle crest lunges from the top of the door like something twisted and evil that could only come out of Latin America.

Entering a room, they find a sinister, grotto-like office where THE GENERALISMO sits behind a mahogany desk-- a personage wide as a bull and just about as mean. A man with gray hair, a gray mustache, and a cruel expression, holding a .45 automatic pistol whose butt he taps on the table, out of force of habit. On this desk, you would find a RED PHONE, a desk-flag set of various Latin American/ fascismo flags, and a couple of gilded luxury pens pulled from the gold fillings of the impoverished populace.

Behind him stands a young man, about 32 years old, in a snazzy white uniform with the bars of a first lieutenant and the gold cord of an aide looped over one shoulder. He has a sharp, black mustache as he stands there like a jackal at semi-official attention, full with the majesty of power that is next-in-line.

The minister of the interior introduces our hero and THE GENERALISMO absorbs the fact for an unnatural beat (-- reveling in his own bullish presence) before barking "Get out!"

THE MINISTER OF THE INTERIOR backs up from the room, babbling in obsequiousness:

Yes, of a certainty, at once, Generalisimo!

THE AIDE-DE-CAMP follows THE MINISTER to the door, closes it after him, and returns to his loyal post by the side of THE OLD GENERAL.

THE GENERALISIMO stops tapping his .45, leans forward with the creak of his chair, arches his fingers and asks with a sinister air:

So. . . . . how many choppers you bring?

Generalisimo, my hope is to aid your country in the development of its banana industry, and bananas do not require any chopping, other than the use of a knife to remove the fruit stem when ready for shipment. Perhaps you are thinking of sugar cane, the processing of which does require chopping and of course, grinding. I regret to say that the culture of sugar cane is outside my field of specialization.

THE LIEUTENANT listens on with an impassive expression as he absorbs this, an absurd contrast between fox-like alacrity and the irrelevant tangents of this Don Quixote like Yankee!

THE GENERALISIMO frowns and gruffly turns his head to THE AIDE:

What in the name of ten devils is he talking about?

THE LIEUTENANT nods and turns to OUR HERO with a formal swiveling motion.

My compliments on your lengthy diversion on agriculture, senor. Unfortunately the Generalisimo has not had the opportunity to learn your language perfectly, and so perhaps he selected the wrong English word, 'choppers' when he asked how many helicopters you brought. Or perhaps, machine guns.

There has been a small mistake. I am not from the U.S. Department of Defense. I am a Peace Corps volunteer!

Exactly!

And what is a corps? It is a unit of an army, made up of at least two divisions and supporting troops. What is a Peace Corps? Obviously, an army unit trained to enforce peace, no doubt skilled in mob control, street fighting and guerilla warfare. We can use that around here!

[He looks up at THE AIDE sharply and asks a question]

How many serious plots against me in the past two years, Teniente?

THE AIDE stands at attention, looking down with his hands clasped behind his back and answers the question:

Eight, Generalisimo.

Eight! I only heard of seven!

Perhaps they did not wish to bother you with news of the eighth.

THE GENERAL glares on, his head cocked upwards and continues to grimly question HIS AIDE with an air of menace:

And perhaps the eighth has not yet come to light. Naturally you would not be involved in any such thing, Teniente?

There is a pawing sound, kind of a scraping on the floor as THE AIDE stares on without moving. It is THE GENERALISIMO'S FOOT pawing under the table, like a bull. This would make a comical wide shot of this general's black boot digging at the dirt floor back-and-forth.

ARTHUR PEABODY GOODPASTURE looks on with a crinkled brow of disbelief, not unlike Chevy Chase.

THE AIDE faces down, standing ramrod straight and replies:

My only desire is to serve you, El Torro-- exalted bull, full of wise leadership.

Pah! Serve me what, a line of shit? A man cannot trust anyone around here!

As he loses his temper, he flings open his desk draw and takes out a handful of Brazil (-- Macadaimian?) nuts and crushes the shelled goodies with the butt of his.45, leaving dents in his desk. He then fishes up the edible pieces and chews on them morosely.

OUR HERO looks confounded.

Generalisimo, our Peace Corps has nothing to do with military matters. All we bring to a country are open hearts and willing hands. The objectives of the Peace Corps, as established by Congress, are to help the people of other countries to meet their needs for trained manpower, to help promote a better understanding of the American people on the part of the people served, and--

Be quiet and let me think!

The aide stands ram-rod straight, but leans forward slightly and murmurs:

Generalisimo, you recall that last night, when you first heard of the expected arrival today of the Peace Corps, I humbly suggested that perhaps it might not be exactly what you thought, and--

You be quiet too!

THE GENERALISIMO cracks another round of Brazil nuts, then THE RED PHONE begins ringing.

As THE GENERALISIMO glares at HIS AIDE, OUR HERO'S narration overlays the scene.

I thought back to my talk with Bill Helms in the car, and realized thankfully that no one could have overheard Bill's comment on the genus and species of the mother of the Generalisimo.

The flash-back of BILL HELMS' VOICE echoes on the screen, "-- A real son-of-a-bitch!"

Then our hero begins speaking in "real time":

I am sure that your, ah, spy must have reported that my friend and I said nothing about military equipment.

THE GENERALISIMO waves HIS FINGER coyly:

You are a cautious one, Senor. But you and your friend made one mistake. You identified yourself by your code number. It was either 06-3 or 00-7.

[He lowers his voice to a husky tone and talks confidentially]

You are among friends, Senor. An agent of the CIA is welcome here.

 

OUR HERO looks on puzzled:

CIA? I'm not familiar with it. Could it be, perhaps, "Committee for International Amigos?"

THE GENERALISIMO brings down his. 45 so hard on a Brazil nut in frustration, that it creates pieces far too small to pick out and eat.

THE AIDE murmurs his answer, standing at semi-relaxed attention:

Yes, Generalisimo. It really is possible.

The number your spy heard, 06-3, is my Skill Code number in the Peace Corps. I did not understand my friend's reference to a code double-oh-seven. . . . .

Fruit farming.

You do not bring 81 millimeter motars or rifles or light tanks?

No, Generalisimo, I--

The Peace Corps does not deal in guns and bombs. As for napalm, I do not know what it is, but I am sure none was issued to me.

Generalismo, may I say that I consider him overrated?

No you may not! That is the trouble with my officers. You laugh at El Gavilan and his barefoot men. And so my people pick up that word barefoot and use it in awe-- Los Descalzos. You sneer at that small plane El Gavilan flies from wherever he hides it in the Cordillera, coming over my towns at night to drop leaflets that insult me. And all the time my people listen for the sound of a small plane after dark, and whisper that El Gavilan rides the night air again. What if he has only one small plane and a few barefoot soldiers? He captures the imagination. One day he may capture San Marcos. For three years I beg those idiots at the U.S. Legation to send me advisers in guerrilla warfare-- rifles, machine guns, tanks, planes equipped for night fighting!

[He turns and angrily sets his eyes on OUR HERO]

And what do they send me finally? Senor 06-3!

Fruit farming.

The general sighs and sweeps the remains of the nuts onto the floor, bringing out some fresh ones to bash.

Perhaps we can salvage something from this. I would not object if you began growing Brazil nuts here. . . . .

My specialty is not nuts.

No guns, no Brazil nuts. What do you offer me, Senor 06-3?

"Bananas, Generalisimo"

Yes. In particular, the Canary Island or Dwarf Cavendish. This may come as a surprise to you, because you will be thinking of bananas in terms of the usual commercial variety, the Gros Michele or Big Mike banana. You--

THE GENERALISMO leans forward with a sinister air:

When I think of bananas, my principle thought is that I do not like them.

That is neither here nor there, Generaliisimo. Millions of people do like bananas, and San Marco could benefit greatly by developing an export trade in bananas, specifically, the Dwarf Cavendish. No doubt you will say, every country in the Caribbean and Central America grows bananas, so how can San Marcos compete? Without going into many details, let me say first that, for many reasons, the banana industry in other countries is going downhill. . . . .

As our hero goes into a boring technical dissertation about bananas, THE GENERALISMO smashes a Brazil nut to pulp on the table.

Ah, how far out, Generalisimo?

Back to his stupid banana-eating country!

OUR HERO squares his shoulders and offers a firm rejoinder:

It is only fair to give me a chance to tell my full story.

The United States might take it as an affront if we deport this man!

Those idiots do nothing for me anyway. Very well. Let us affront them!

Generalisimo. I would not wish to see the United States so affronted that it begins to send military aid to El Gavilan and Los Descaloz. Would it not be better if. . . . . .

He leans up to THE GENERALISIMO ear and begins to whisper, and EL TORO perks up.

Teniente, I have been underestimating you. I thought you were nothing but a delight to the ladies, your tailor and the money lenders. Now I find that you have an excellent brain. This means I must either begin promoting you or have you shot.

Generalisimo, the money lenders would be desolated if I were shot, and a lady or two might even sigh.

Then let us hope you do not overwork that excellent brain of yours, except in my behalf. You are now promoted to Capitan. Continue developing your idea to me. Meanwhile we will ask the Senor to continue his lecture on bananas. Senor, if you please?

As OUR HERO goes into a long-winded lecture about banana cultivation (-- this is mostly just background patter that doesn't really matter), the two whisper busily to each other. The monologue continues, and OUR HERO makes a point with an obvious rhetorical question. THE GENERALISIMO utters "yes, yes!" with great delight and brightness in his eyes and whispers with great animation to HIS AIDE. The monologue continues, and finally the general begins laughing with great mirth, you could say almost uncontrollably.

Thank you. That is my deepest hope.

The Capitan-- his name by the way, is Carlos Veleta-- will take personal charge of this project. I cannot run the risk of having some pig from another department spoil it. Captain Veleta will seek out the best area for the project and will himself conduct you to it. He will get in touch with you within one or two days?

I am honored.

THE GENERALISIMO gives a jovial salute:

It is we who are honored. Senor, your arrival in Puerto Grande has made this a glorious day for me!

FADE TO BLACK

(MORE TO COME)

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